The Only Thing
by Texas Chigger
Summary: CHALLENGE: Missing Scenes: the events surrounding the attack on the Narrows as seen from four different perspectives. [Chapters 4 of 4]
1. Alfred

_Disclaimer:_ None of the characters or their histories belong to me; I'm just borrowing from DC Comics and whoever has bought the rights.

_"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead_

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* * *

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The frothing water and fluttering bats settled back into their usual calm as the roar of the Tumbler faded into echoes and fell silent. Alfred sighed softly, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion only now that he was alone. But they straightened almost immediately as he began gathering the medical supplies and returning them to their places. The only thing that held Alfred's world together was what small semblance of order and propriety he'd managed to maintain through the years. He was most certainly not going to lose that now.

He closed the cabinet firmly and turned to retrieve his tuxedo jacket, rolling down his sleeves as he went. Master Bruce had needed several stitches and been suffering from smoke inhalation, and Alfred knew that by all rights he should not be out trying to save the world but recuperating in bed. However, it was a proven fact that the young master loathed inaction, and never more decidedly than when he felt Gotham needed him, or after two days of bed rest. As both of these conditions were present, Alfred knew that nothing could have stopped Master Bruce from carrying out his self-appointed Crusade and had made no attempt to restrain him.

Alfred also knew, however, that even if he wished only for the Master's well-being, there was more at stake than the life of Bruce Wayne and the peace of mind of his butler. Neither Alfred nor Master Bruce would have been able to live with the guilt of knowing that they hadn't done all they could to save the hundreds of lives that were hanging in the balance especially if their reasons were purely selfish. What good was Gotham's Protector if he let her die to save himself?

The smell of smoke and ash was unpleasantly strong, even down in the ever-present mustiness of the Cave; but the sounds of fiery destruction from above were no longer so prominent. He assumed that stately Wayne Manor had at last crumbled into nothingness, taking so many priceless mementos with it. He'd been shocked when he'd returned from depositing Miss Rachel in her apartment to find his home engulfed in flames and surrounded by armed guards. He'd known without a shadow of a doubt that Master Wayne was still inside, and had simply rushed in without thought. It had been an extremely foolish thing to do, he saw now; but he couldn't regret it, since he had been able to save the young master. Although it seemed he'd only succeeded in sending him off into what he was sure would become another impossible situation.

Alfred forced himself to relax into a nearby chair, knowing that worrying would help no one. However, he couldn't help wondering whether even the Batman could save the people of Gotham from something of this magnitude. Master Bruce had informed him of the presence of Ra's al Ghul; and although Alfred knew nothing about the man, the look of fear in Master Bruce's eyes, despite his efforts to conceal it, had given him reason to pause. He knew that the quick explanation of having known him from the years abroad did not even begin to reveal the depth of Master Bruce's knowledge of the man, nor the young Master's own feelings for him; for beside the fear in the young man's gaze, there was also the pain a child feels after being betrayed by an elder he trusts and believes in.

Alfred sighed again. There had been a time in Master Bruce's life when Alfred had been perfectly attuned to all the young man's moods and feelings. He'd been able to read his heart through his eyes – windows to the soul, they called them – and in turn Alfred had been the boy's confidant and closest friend.

Seven years of separation had ended that. He'd seen it as soon as Master Bruce boarded the privet jet for the journey home. The lost young boy who had disappeared so suddenly had returned a man. The man Alfred had seen sitting across from him that day had been intent on a purpose, a reason for living. It had soothed many of Alfred's fears while creating heretofore unimagined new ones. In truth, the young Master's plan for his life and the future of Gotham had frightened Alfred beyond all reason; but the surety and calm in Master Bruce's manner had eased the doubts that had immediately begun to grow in the older man's mind.

He'd assisted Master Bruce in his endeavor; had guided him, counseled him, questioned him, and bantered with him. But after the Batman's thrilling debut into Gotham's night life, Alfred's worries had surfaced one hundredfold. The reality of what Master Bruce was doing had winded him as he read the morning paper and the rather lengthy article concerning the "anonymous man in bat costume" who had captured the infamous Carmine Falcone. The article had gone into depth about the odds such a man would face if he continued fighting crime in the under levels of Gotham City.

Alfred had balked.

But he had buried his fears behind his usual calm exterior and proper etiquette. He'd spoken no word of quitting to his young charge, and had given him advice on how to continue his activities without coming under suspicion. The entire time his good sense and almost fatherly devotion had been screaming that they should retire the Batman immediately and count his single deed for the city as above and beyond the call of duty. He'd begun to wonder if the Batman was truly intended to save others, or if he existed only to pull Bruce Wayne through the guilt and pain of his loss twenty-two years before.

It had been enough to worry Alfred with Master Bruce missing for seven years and Miss Dawes throwing herself into the corrupt legal system of the city to try to make a difference. Now he almost wished Master Bruce would return to his life of hiding, rather than putting himself into the line of fire of every two-bit thug and villain within the city limits. One of his young charges is harm's way was stressful enough; two would likely put him in his grave.

Watching Master Bruce during the two days of his indisposition had driven the feeling home more firmly. The delirious cries and mutterings of the young man had tortured Alfred to an unimaginable degree, and he'd been a frantic mess when he called Mr. Fox. Even working together, they had found it very difficult to get Master Bruce to cease struggling against them to get a blood sample. When Fox had finally returned with the antidote, Alfred was firmly of the opinion that Batman should cease to exist, and he'd been angry more than worried during his little jaunt into the Narrows after Miss Rachel.

But when he'd seen the utter defeat in Master Bruce's once more open gaze as they sat huddled in the lift car, he'd felt his old heart tighten in a new fear: the fear that the young man who had seemed so invincible only hours before was about to admit defeat. Alfred knew that it would have completely crushed Master Bruce to acknowledge he'd failed completely; and quite possibly, it would have reduced him to the bitter rebel he had become in the years following his parents' murders. So Alfred had once again hidden his own fears and recalled words of advice from Dr. Wayne that had often rallied the young man's spirits in years past.

The ruse had worked perfectly, and the young master had risen with new resolve. In fact, it had been somewhat difficult to convince him to submit to Alfred's medical treatment. But reason had at last prevailed, and it had not been long before Gotham's Avenging Angel had rushed into the fray, leaving an old man alone to ponder the situation and mourn the losses already suffered. He knew it would be hard for both of them to accept that all they had known of Thomas and Martha Wayne, all their earthly possessions, had been destroyed, leaving only fading memories in the minds of those who had known them. For himself, Alfred wasn't sure how much more loss he could endure. Life seemed filled more with pain and suffering than happiness and rejoicing, and the downs far out numbered the ups.

The voice of his dear late friend and employer echoed once again in his mind, _"And why do we fall, Bruce? So we can learn to pick ourselves up."_

Alfred smiled softly to himself, "_You still haven't given up on me; have you, Thomas, my old friend"_

He could almost hear the inevitable answer: _"Never."_


	2. Rachel

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own the characters; they belong to DC Comics and the makers of _Batman Begins._ As for the boy's identity – this sort of became the back-story for Philippa's wonderful tale (with her permission of course). If you haven't already, I strongly recommend that you read her stories as soon as possible. You won't regret it.

* * *

"Bruce?" Rachel heard herself ask, her mind refusing to accept what seemed so incongruously obvious. But she saw the confirmation in his eyes – those blue eyes that she suddenly recognized from her fondest memories – just before he turned and threw himself off the building. 

She watched him fall, a gentle smile - faint but real - forming on her lips. So Bruce _was_ "more" after all. He wasn't the mindless playboy he seemed to be. The thought filled her with warm pride as he soared away through the mist.

"Who is he?" a small, breathy voice asked as a trembling hand slipped into hers.

She glanced down at the boy beside her. Smiling, she answered quietly, "He didn't say."

She could tell he was mildly disappointed, even through Crane's toxin; but he didn't say anything else, just stood clinging to her, gazing after the now invisible hero.

_Hero,_ she repeated in her mind. Bruce had been her hero all through childhood. He seemed so superior to the other boys she knew. He could be a pest sometimes, it was true; but he'd never intentionally hurt her. She'd known, even back then, that she'd fallen for him.

But then _It_ had happened and the young, affectionate, lighthearted Bruce she'd always known had disappeared, leaving a bitter, sorrowful boy in his wake. She nearly lost hope that horrible night of Chill's murder when he admitted just how low he'd fallen. But as the years passed, and even after his return, she'd kept her love for him, knowing that he couldn't stay away forever and one day the Bruce Wayne now known to the world would leave, letting the Bruce of old return.

Tonight had proved her right. _Her_ Bruce was back.

Small sobs shook her from her thoughts, and she knelt down on the dirty concrete roof in front of the boy. His tear-filled eyes were darting back and forth through the haze surrounding them, the toxin coursing through him making unimaginable horrors come to life in his mind. He seemed calm enough just moments before, Rachel thought, wrapping him tightly in her arms. She'd almost been convinced the gas hadn't affected him or had run its course.

He jumped suddenly in her embrace and she could feel his heart thumping wildly against her. "Shh," she soothed quietly, tucking his head gently into her chest. "It's alright. We're safe now." She rocked him subtly back and forth, hoping desperately that Gordon hadn't accidentally lost the second vial.

"How do you know?" that same scared little voice asked.

"Batman left us here," she answered, remembering the unfailing trust the boy had in the man who seemed to be his idol. "He wouldn't leave us somewhere where we weren't safe."

It seemed to calm him, and Rachel marveled at the reaction. How did Bruce command such loyalty and trust from a complete stranger? How had the kid she'd grown up with become a city's hero?

She felt her heart skip a beat as the actual truth finally sank in, and her heart realized what her brain had already accepted. Bruce Wayne was the Batman. It wasn't some little quirk a friend of hers had that she could smile to herself about while the rest of the world remained perfectly oblivious; the entire city knew and feared him. He was more than just another man. Somehow, everything suddenly seemed more complicated and unreal.

It wasn't some faceless "Batman," it was_ Bruce_.

_Bruce_ had taken down Falcone single-handed.

_Bruce_ had saved her life. Twice. No, three times.

_Bruce_, that wonderful, sweet eight-year-old boy, was now every Gotham City criminal's worst nightmare. And she knew with sudden and complete clarity that they would be after him. They would try everything to bring him down. But she also knew, deep in the core of her being, that they wouldn't succeed. Somehow Batman would survive untold hardships, just as he must have been doing for the last seven years.

She unconsciously tightened her grip on the child in her arms, needing more than giving comfort. Glancing down she found that he'd worn himself out and fallen asleep, fear no longer clouding his young features. She smiled despite her situation, her thoughts centered on another boy she'd known long ago. He'd been her best friend, her secret crush, her hero. But then he disappeared.

Her smile fell. The jerk had left her without a word, without a trace. He insulted her and her career; he declared his intentions to murder Joe Chill; then he left them all: her, Alfred, Gotham, and the legacy of his parents. He ran away to hide like the spoiled rich brat that he was. She frowned deeply.

Then he had the gall to show up suddenly, seven years later, after everyone assumed he'd died, and act like a complete buffoon in public to hide himself from her and the world. He hadn't changed a bit. He trusted no one; he'd lied to everyone; and he'd left her again! This time on top of some godforsaken building in the middle of a war zone while he ran off to do something stupid that could very likely get him killed; and it didn't appear that he'd be returning any time soon.

Still grumbling to herself, but resigned to her fate, she shifted into a more comfortable position, the boy cradled in her lap. There wasn't much else she could do, she groused silently. Until Bruce decided to be a gentleman and get her out of there, or until some _real _gentleman came along, she'd just have to sit and do nothing.

And so she sat, brooding angrily over her treatment at the hands of her ex-best friend, the man she'd loved since childhood, Gotham's favorite blockhead. Time seemed to pass with excruciating slowness. The sounds of screaming, explosions, and gunshots sounded unnaturally loud in the mist that was still wrapped around them all; but she felt strangely detached from the horrors occurring below. The child in her lap was still sleeping, his intermittent jerks and whimpers the only evidence of the nightmares he must have been suffering now that his sleep had deepened. But Rachel knew that to rouse him would only bring the dreams into the waking world, and in truth save him nothing. So she let him sleep, and even managed small cat naps to ward off her own growing weariness.

At long last, the sun slowly began to rise, helping dispel the lingering fog and bringing a more sure sense of peace to the surroundings as the screams slowly became more intermittent. Rachel felt the warmth on her back, and shivered at the pleasant change in the air that had been so frigid all night. The boy in her lap shifted, and she felt him slowly pull himself out of the sleeping world and back into their present situation. He tensed suddenly, his bright blue eyes catching her gaze in fear. "Who are you?" he asked softly, his voice trembling.

"I'm Rachel," she answered just as softly, smiling in the hope of reassuring him. "Batman brought us here, remember?"

His eyes clouded in thought. Suddenly he squeezed them shut and curled in on himself, trying hard to suppress the sobs that tore through him.

Rachel wrapped her arms tightly around his shivering form in a vain attempt to protect him from the demons in his mind; but he shoved her away and stumbled a few steps across the roof before collapsing in a heap. She watched in sorrow and pity, knowing full well what he was going through from her own experience the previous night; but unable to do a thing to help him. At last he seemed to calm down enough for her to approach without chasing him over the side of the building.

"Hey," she whispered, ignoring the protests of muscles stiff from sitting all night as she crossed to him. "It's okay. Pretty soon we're gonna get you all fixed up and sent back home where you belong. You'll see." Slowly, she helped him sit up, his gaze once more fixed on hers, but this time with hope. "What's your name?" she asked, brushing his dirty blond hair back from his sweaty forehead.

"Dick," he answered, his voice raw.

"Well, Dick," she replied with a smile, "what do you say we try to find our way out of here?"

He nodded, and she helped him to his feet. She paused, glancing around in disgust. _Why couldn't Bruce have picked a building with a roof access?_

At last she spotted the fire escape and started towards it, just as a cop stuck his head over the wall. "It's okay, lady," he began as soon as he caught sight of her, his hands up in a placating gesture. "I'm here to help you."

"Thank you, officer," she answered crisply, feeling the child pressing against her side in fear. "This boy needs the antidote. Where do we go to get him fixed up?"

The officer seemed taken aback at her calm and businesslike attitude. She assumed he'd been dealing with half-crazed people all night and hadn't been expecting anyone to be so level-headed. "Uh . . . yeah; we've got someone working on that. If you'll come with me, I can get you off the island and somebody'll direct you from there."

Rachel nodded, wrapping her arm more firmly around Dick's thin shoulders to reassure him before they reached the fire escape. "Here we go, kiddo," she said softly, accepting the hand the cop offered to help her over the guardrail. Dick likewise allowed the policeman to lift him over the wall before taking Rachel's hand firmly in his own once more.

The trip off the island was more or less uneventful. Pandemonium still inhabited some of the darker alleys as Gotham's Finest tried hard to subdue the still terrified victims; but for the most part, the island's inhabitants seemed more dazed than anything. She assumed the morning sunlight filtering through the ever-present Gotham smog had a part in that. Once they'd crossed the bridge, things seemed somewhat more normal, despite the heavy police presence and the hovering news crews who, thankfully, either didn't see or didn't recognize her, and allowed them to pass without incident.

They were directed by another officer to a nearby building that had obviously been on the market for sometime; but which was currently being used as a temporary clinic. Those that needed greater attention were rushed to the hospital, while the less serious cases were either sent home, or asked to take a seat in the makeshift waiting room.

When Rachel and Dick entered, an overworked nurse with a clipboard and a weary smile greeted them at the door. "Hello, ma'am," she said calmly. "May I have your name, please?"

"Rachel Dawes," she answered automatically. "Dick needs the antidote."

"Is this Dick?" the nurse asked, motioning to the jittery boy with her pen.

Rachel nodded curtly.

"Well, I'm afraid we don't have much here with us," the nurse told her sorrowfully; "but we're told another case or two should be coming in about an hour." She looked down at the boy who was once again jumping at shadows, his eyes wide and frightened. She sighed softly. "He's only a boy," she muttered, almost to herself. Turning back to Rachel she smiled as best she could, "Take a seat, please, dear."

Rachel nodded and led Dick to where a large crowd was seated on foldout chairs, tables, and almost every available space on the floor, most of them looking as terrified as Dick. One lucid young man of about eighteen caught sight of her and rose quickly to his feet, offering her his chair. She sat down, pulling Dick into her lap and smiling gratefully at the young man. She'd known that Gotham City had a gentleman somewhere in the crowd.

The thought brought her earlier ire bubbling back to the surface. _Seven years,_ she muttered silently. She had believed herself to be his best friend, second only to Alfred; but it had been Carl who had told her Bruce was back in town. It was only by sheer luck that she had bumped into him several weeks later while he was out on the town showing the world what a moron he was. There had been no phone call, no sudden visit, not even a note in the mail! She felt certain that if it had been _she _who had gone missing for seven years, Bruce would have been one of the first people she got in touch with once she got back. She wouldn't have left it to fate. Surely Dr. and Mrs. Wayne had taught Bruce better manners than that.

The sound of her own voice from the past echoed suddenly in her mind, _"Your parents would be ashamed of you."_

She felt her anger cool a few degrees as she remembered her last words to him so long ago. She hit him where she knew he was the most vulnerable. His parents' memories had haunted him ever since they'd died, and any mention of them always brought anguish and suffering into his gaze. He probably deserved whatever pain it had caused; but who was she to say whether or not his parents would be proud of him? Even if it was true, she saw now that it probably wasn't the best way to get through to a wounded and confused young man. And he'd left without another word between them.

Something akin to shame began building within her, and it was with bitter sorrow that she recalled his words to her the evening before in the Cave, _"I don't have the luxury of friends."_ Surely she had something to do with that. If friends were as cruel and uncaring as she must have seemed, a person was better off without them. Especially one who needed as much focus as she imagined the Batman needed to carry out his mission.

No, she decided; she wasn't Bruce's friend, much as she wished she was. He no doubt felt that she'd betrayed him with those few simple words that must have hurt him so deeply. Why else would he have run away from so much – from everything?

She sighed softly, forcing herself to leave her deeper thoughts for home, after she'd gotten Dick taken care of and slept for a full twelve hours. She glanced around the group of people surrounding her, catching snatches of the various conversations. She realized with a small amount of shock that most of them concerned the Batman. Those who weren't completely under the thrall of the fear toxin were discussing their personal experiences from the night before.

"He pulled Susie off the balcony before she could jump . . ."

"I saw him save an old lady from a mob . . ."

". . . saved Tommy from some punk with a gun . . ."

". . . thought he was the devil himself when he flew overhead; but later . . ."

". . . thought I was a goner 'til he showed up."

". . . stopped her from crossin' the street in front of that car . . ."

Rachel rested her chin thoughtfully on Dick's head, her gaze distant as she listened to complete strangers reveal their debts to the Batman. Each claim twisted the shame she felt like a knife in her heart. She'd been so wrong about him. He wasn't a spoiled brat, at least not anymore; he was selflessly giving himself to everyone in Gotham, at his own expense. No one had asked him to -- she was sure Alfred hadn't -- he was simply volunteering to serve his parents' legacy in the most spectacular way possible, and all without credit. He had sacrificed his own reputation to keep his anonymity, and she had scorned him for it.

She felt tears threaten; but blinked them forcefully away. _Now's not the time, Rachel,_ she berated herself.

At last the next pitifully inadequate shipment of the antidote arrived, and the nurse of earlier began calling names from her clipboard. Rachel noted with some relief that most of those being called were children; surely Dick's turn would arrive soon.

Shortly thereafter, she and Dick were both escorted down a short hallway and into a small room where another nurse was waiting for them. Smiling as reassuringly as possible, the nurse rolled up Dick's sleeve and rubbed the area with an alcohol soaked cotton ball. "Okay, honey," she said softly. "Here we go."

Dick, seeing the needle coming at him, began to struggle against Rachel's gentle yet firm hold. He screamed as the needle was inserted in his arm; but as soon as the full dose entered his bloodstream, he stopped fighting and finally stood peacefully in Rachel's arms, his gaze clear. He sniffled a little, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose with a small smile. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"You're quite welcome, dear," the nurse answered with a smile. "Now, how about you?" she continued, turning to Rachel.

"Oh, no; I'm fine," Rachel assured her. Seeing that she wasn't convinced, she reluctantly added, "The Batman gave me the antidote last night."

The nurse still seemed incredulous, but Dick's eyes shone with wonderment. "Batman gave you a shot?" he asked excitedly as Rachel led him from the room to make way for the next patient. "When? I didn't see him do it, did I?"

Rachel smiled at his exuberance. "No, it was before I met you. The bad guys had captured me and were going to kill me; but Batman came along and stopped them."

"Boy, you must be good friends with him," he stated innocently.

Rachel felt her guilt churn within her, but tried hard not to show it. "No, not really. But he has been making my job easier."

"What do you do?" he asked, his eyes alight with imaginings.

"I'm an assistant District Attorney," she answered simply.

His grin faltered slightly. "You're a lawyer?"

She chuckled at the disgust evident in his voice. "Not all lawyers are crooked," she defended, giving his shoulder a playful nudge.

He smiled up at her, obviously forgiving her for her profession, but his thoughts were probably centered firmly on the Batman once more. She left him to his imagination as they stepped out into the sunlight and started down the sidewalk. For herself, she was trying desperately to figure out what to do with him. She hated to take him down to the police department, knowing that they were probably extremely shorthanded; but she couldn't just take him home, either. Her apartment super didn't allow children; and besides, who knew how many strands of red tape she'd be ducking around? Assistant D.A. Rachel Dawes did not need to be charged with kidnapping; her life was hectic enough as it was.

Coming to a somewhat reluctant decision, she led him to the nearest train station and scanned the timetable for the next train headed toward the Gotham PD. "Uh, Rachel," she heard Dick start uncertainly, tugging a little on her hand. She looked where he was pointing – a large sign covered the ticket window announcing: Train Shut Down for Repairs.

"Strange," she muttered. "Oh well; I guess we'll have to grab a taxi, huh?"

Dick nodded and they set off yet again; but flagging down a taxi proved to be near impossible as demand far outweighed availability. She was losing hope of ever getting one to stop when Dick stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Immediately a yellow cab pulled up to the curb beside them. Impressed, she smiled down at him as she opened the door; his own grin shone with impish pride. "Mom taught me that," he informed her roguishly.

"I'm glad," Rachel admitted. "Come on."

* * *

As they stepped through the door of the P.D., Rachel could already tell that she'd be enjoying Dick's company for another hour at least. The place was packed with desperate parents and scared children, all of whom seemed to be looking for someone else. _With luck his mom will be in here somewhere,_ she thought hopefully as they took their place in line. 

Dick seemed to have the same thought, and was craning his neck in ways Rachel hadn't thought possible in his search for a familiar face. But nearly an hour passed without any such luck, and at last Rachel found herself being addressed by the longsuffering PBX operator who brightened as a coworker passed her a steaming cup of coffee.

"May I help you?" she asked, taking an obviously much needed sip of her drink.

"Yes, my name is Rachel Dawes, and this is Dick . . ." Rachel glanced down at him questioningly.

"Huh? Oh, Grayson," he answered.

"Ok, Mr. Grayson," the operator said, typing furiously. "I guess you're looking for your parents, huh?"

"My mom," he answered with a nod.

"Alrighty then, if you and Ms. Dawes could step into that room right there," she said, pointing, "we'll have someone in to help you momentarily. Good luck, sweetie."

"Thank you," Rachel answered for him, leading Dick into the designated glass room. "Guess we get to wait some more, huh?"

"Yeah," Dick said, scuffing his shoe on the tile floor. "At least there're chairs in here."

Rachel sighed in agreement, dropping with a deliberate lack of grace into the luxurious plastic chair. She needed to get to bed. Soon.

Just as she was starting to dose off, the silence was broken by the sound of the door closing and the gruff voice of the officer who'd joined them. "Ok, I'm Officer Bullock, and I just need you two to answer some questions for me," he said, sliding his massive bulk into the seemingly inadequate chair. He took a gulp from the Styrofoam cup in his hand. "Your name's Rachel Dawes?" he asked, glancing up at her. At her nod, he turned to Dick, "And you're Dick Grayson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Ma'am, I need your home address and phone number." Rachel supplied them, her eyes fixed enviously on his steaming cup. "ID, please," he added.

Rachel reached automatically for her purse, only to realize that she didn't have it with her. She hadn't expected to need her wallet while running errands for the Batman. "I don't have it with me," she answered.

He nodded in exasperation. "Seems to be the standard answer this morning," he groused, seeming more annoyed at how his day was going than at Rachel. "Okay," he continued, pulling a digital camera out of his pocket, "I'll have to snap a quick shot of you, just for the record." He did so without giving Rachel time to compose herself. She groaned silently, not even wanting to know how it had turned out; but the officer went on without a pause, "Now I just need you two to answer a few questions . . ."

At last all the necessary information was filled in and Officer Bullock hauled his heavy frame out of his chair and back out into the busy common area. Dick slipped from his own chair and sidled up to Rachel, looking nervous.

"What's gonna happen now?" he asked softly.

She tried to smile reassuringly at him, running her fingers gently through his hair. "They're gonna find your mom; but in the meantime, they'll put you with another family that'll take good care of you."

"Why can't I stay with you?" he asked plaintively.

"I wish you could, sweetie," she said, wrapping an arm around him and giving him a slight squeeze. "But I live in an apartment, and I don't think CPS will let you come home with me."

"Mom and I live in an apartment," he argued. "What's wrong with that?" He paused momentarily. "And what's PCS?"

"CPS," she corrected automatically. "Child Protective Services; they find homes for kids who need them." She paused to sigh heavily. "There's nothing wrong with living in an apartment; but some apartment owners don't like kids," she answered honestly, hoping he wouldn't take it wrong. "And besides, I haven't been approved to take in a child. The government wouldn't let me just take you without checking me out first."

He scrunched up his nose in distaste and confusion. "What do they care?" he asked bluntly. "They're not in charge of me."

"Actually, until we find your mom, yes they are." She shook her head to forestall any further arguments. "Much as I wish I could, Dick; I can't take you home with me. So I'd like you to be good and go where they tell you to, okay? It'll only be temporary, anyway."

He nodded disconsolately. "Will I ever see you again?" he asked.

"I hope so," she smiled. "As soon as you find your mom, you call me, okay? I'm in the phone book, and I'd love to hear from you."

He nodded again just as the door opened to admit a CPS agent. She smiled at both of them. "I'm Becky," she said, holding out her hand to Dick. "You're gonna come with me now, Dick."

Rachel felt him lean into her, his entire demeanor screaming reluctance. "Go on," she urged, pushing him gently towards Becky.

He suddenly turned and wrapped his small arms around her, squeezing tightly. "'Bye, Rachel," he whispered tearfully before releasing her and hurrying out the door. Becky followed him out, leaving Rachel to find her own way.

* * *

As she lay in bed, unable to sleep despite her weariness, Rachel's thoughts drifted back to Bruce, as it seemed they had every night for as long as she could remember. She'd spent years worrying about him as she watched him change more and more from the playmate she'd know in her childhood into a bitter, cynical young man; then wondering where he'd gone and when he'd be home. It was only recently that she'd actually begun to hope that the dreams of a six-year-oldgirl might actually come true. Maybe, now that Bruce had come back, losing his constant state of depression somewhere along the way, they could pick up their relationship where it had left off, and perhaps take it even farther. Even as she dreamed, she knew that she was hoping for the near-impossible; and that hundreds of other women around the world were probably longing for his attentions; but she also felt, during their brief conversation outside the hotel, that he wanted to see her just as much as she had wanted to see him. His irresistible smile and cryptic message about being "more inside", coupled with the way his eyes had lost their insipid blank expression and begun burning with an intense seriousness, had convinced her that he didn't want her to think of him as the rest of the world did, and that he felt he needed her approval before he could be truly happy. 

She'd spent most of the evening in a daze, her thoughts centered firmly on those amazing blue eyes that had seemed to be begging her to forgive him – for what, she wasn't sure.

She'd heard the rumors and seen the tabloids. Janie, Carl's overly romantic secretary, had made sure to fill her in on all the sordid details outlined in every article Gotham Gertie wrote about Brucie Wayne, playboy extraordinaire. But none of it had mattered to her; she knew that given the chance she could tear him away from the less savory aspects of Gotham's elite, and together they could be happy. The problem was finding time to spend with him. He was always out living life to the fullest, or mysteriously busy at homewhile she was working furiously to rid Gotham of crime and corruption. Since the emergence of the Batman, she'd been insanely busy, with hardly an evening to call her own.

The Batman – he had also filled a great deal of her thoughts lately. When he saved her the first time, he seemed so dark and menacing, almost as if he was more comfortable dealing out punishment than carrying on a conversation. She had sensed an underlying cruelty in him, a thirst for vengeance that drove him to impossible feats. She wasn't ashamed to admit that she'd been scared to death of him. He embodied all her worst nightmares, and she had expected him to lunge at her, beating her to the ground just as he had her assailant. Instead he offered her a once in a lifetime chance to begin cleaning out Gotham for good; although his claim that they were two of a kind had incensed her. Later when she'd read what he'd done to Falcone and his men she'd been overjoyed; but the fear she harbored wouldn't be silenced. The man was obviously dangerous, and had to be somewhat off his rocker; what guarantee did she have that he wouldn't one day turn on her?

Comparing the two now, Rachel suddenly lost both her hope for Bruce Wayne's salvation, and her fear of the Batman. The false front of Bruce Wayne was simply that – false. She'd known that there was another man within the façade, but she could now see that he was even less appealing than the playboy. He was the Bat. Bruce wasn't a rich orphan lacking proper direction; he was simply a face for the Batman to hide behind. But the way he begged her to believe in him, the fact that he'd already saved her three times since he'd come home, and the strange light in his eyes despite the calm professionalism of his voice when she'd awoken in the cave, assured her that he did love her, at least as a friend. She couldn't fear him any more than she could save him from himself.

No, she'd been wrong. Her Bruce wasn't back; someone else had come home in his place.


	3. Bruce

_Disclaimer:_ The characters herein doth not belongeth to me; they are the property of DC comics and anyone who's handed over enough money to borrow them. Turtle Wax brand isn't mine, either.

* * *

Batman surveyed the area silently from a nearby alley. Things were relatively quiet here at the site of Ra's al Ghul's demise and the wreckage of Thomas Wayne's famous train. The Narrows, he knew, would be more than enough to keep the remainder of the police force busy. He'd done all he could for the past seven hours – saving people from their own terror. He had almost questioned the practicality of his costume a few times, when he seemed to inspire more fear than hope in those he was trying to assist; but he had been able to do a great deal of good, stopping only with the approach of dawn. Batman had no place in the light of day, and so he was on his way home.

Assured of his solitude, he slipped from the shadows and crossed soundlessly to the Tumbler. Gordon had apparently walked, preferring his own two feet, or unwilling to draw attention to his part in the night's episode. Either way, Batman was thankful. It was much simpler to walk across the street and drive away than having to pass unnoticed through a large crowd of police and media.

He stopped beside the vehicle, his gaze passing critically over the second-hand car paint that ran along the length of the side. Gordon must have had trouble with control on the drive from the Narrows to Wayne Tower. He brushed a gloved hand over the contours of the car, knocking much of the broken glass that covered it to the ground. He paused, suddenly remembering that he'd given the remote to Gordon. Mentally he ran through the list of possible places Gordon could be, calculated the estimated number of uniformed officers and news cameras that would be gathered nearby, and decided that he should have brought an extra remote. If not for the harsh training he'd endured, the Batman would have laughed at his own stupidity; but he forced himself to work the problem instead. An old adage of Alfred's popped into mind, one that he'd heard often through his childhood, _"Do not sit there like a gorilla, Master Bruce; work the problem." _Anyone looking closely would have seen the corner of Batman's mouth quirk; but as no one was watching, his reputation was saved.

A quick inspection revealed the remote carefully tucked into the small nook on the side of the Tumbler and he was soon on his way home, his speed somewhat more respectable than it had been the previous evening. Despite what the criminal element may think, Batman wasn't entirely his own master; Alfred was still the voice of command in many aspects of their domestic life, and the dressing down he'd given Bruce Wayne earlier was still fresh in the Batman's mind. He was in enough trouble with the elderly gentleman already without causing a traffic pileup on the way home.

His thoughts shifted suddenly, the frightened face of Rachel Dawes appearing in his mind's eye and sending a shiver through him. He'd never seen her so utterly terrified – such a change from her normal brisk businesslike attitude or cheerful friendliness. It had shaken him more than he cared to admit. The sight of the antidote on the counter had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever beheld. He knew that by allowing the situation to get to him he was in violation of all his training, but he hadn't cared. Rachel was more than just another face in the crowd; more than just an ally in his war; she was Rachel, the only friend of his childhood, the reason for his crusade, and the single most important woman in his life.

He halted that thought, refusing to go any deeper into the issue until he had ceased to be Batman for the night and was once again simply Bruce Wayne. Batman could not allow himself to form emotional attachments; they were for Wayne, and Wayne alone.

He reviewed the night's events in his mind, going over each detail and searching for a way to improve his performance. One was never perfect, he knew; but he also knew that if he was going to live to see Christmas, he'd better make sure he didn't lose his edge. All it took was a lucky shot from some drunk with a gun and both Batman and Bruce Wayne would cease to exist and Gotham would be on her own again.

_Not entirely,_ he reminded himself, the weathered face of Jim Gordon clear in his mind.

Gordon was proving to be a valuable ally. He didn't know many people who would have gone along with his plans like Gordon had. After all, he hadn't volunteered for the job, Batman had simply chosen him; and then told him to blow up the train. In an organization like the GCPD, actions such as Gordon had performed were grounds for suspension, termination, or even imprisonment. But the sergeant hadn't questioned his orders, or even expressed concern; he'd simply nodded, taken the remote and gone to work, giving Batman the time and assistance needed to bring down al Ghul and his minions. He knew that without Gordon's help it would have been much harder, though not impossible. He had several plans ready to be put into action by the time he'd reached the Narrows; but none that would have worked quite as efficiently without Gordon's willing aid.

He called to mind random faces from the crowds of fear-crazed people, analyzing their expressions and reactions with the intention of formulating a plan of action should he find himself in a similar situation in the future, a likely possibility given that Crane was still unaccounted for. The toxin had seemed to affect people in varying degrees; some had been terrified while others had been simply frightened. Could some people have a natural immunity? He'd have to ask Fox.

He suddenly remembered the boy Rachel had been protecting. He'd obviously been affected by the toxin that surrounded them all; but he had seemed better able to control his fear. The sweat covering his young face, the tremors that shook his small frame, and the tears of fright that shone in his eyes proved that he wasn't immune to the poison; but he hadn't screamed or cried, he hadn't run, and he had believed in Batman, even when everything else seemed lost. Rachel's courage and strength had seemed to pass to the child through some spiritual osmosis; but it hadn't kept the boy from clinging to Rachel like his life depended on her.

Bruce Wayne chuckled humorlessly in the back of Batman's mind. _You and me both, kid._

Batman silenced him with a thought. Now was not the time for self-pitying humor.

He continued his analysis of the night's events until he reached the Cave and parked the Tumbler in its usual place. As the hatch opened, he caught sight of Alfred standing near the computer. "Master Batman," he called, "it is wonderful to see you back in one piece. I have prepared the bed for you," he added, pointing to the cot they'd decided to keep in the Cave for emergencies.

Batman simply nodded as he crossed to the costume vault and removed the cowl. After hours spent in the thing, it felt wonderful to finally have it off. He rolled his neck, listening with painful satisfaction to the various pops and cracks as he did so. "Have you slept, Alfred?" Bruce asked, swinging the cape off his shoulders and hanging it neatly on the rack.

"Of course, sir," the elderly butler answered, his tone clearly asking _What else could I have done?_

Dressed once again in the pajamas that he'd abandoned the day before, Bruce turned back to his butler who was really so much more. "I know you're probably really confused right now, Alfred," he started, struggling to stifle a yawn. "I can explain."

"After you've got some rest, Master Bruce," the loyal gentleman answered firmly. "I can live with unanswered questions for a few hours more."

"Yes, Alfred," Bruce replied obediently, crossing to the blanket covered cot.

"Sleep well, young man."

* * *

A dull roar was the first sound Bruce's sleep-fogged senses registered as he awoke, but it was immediately identified as the waterfall that hid the entrance to the Cave and dismissed as harmless. Next came the ever-present fluttering of the bats that occupied the higher regions of the Batman's lair, also dismissed. By the time he was fully awake, though with his eyes still closed, Bruce knew that he was lying on a cot two feet off the ground under a wool blanket in the area ten feet due west of the now useless lift car, and that Alfred was moving around near the Tumbler. His internal clock informed him that it had only been three hours since his return.

Deciding to indulge himself, Bruce relaxed into the pillow, allowing his thoughts to wander aimlessly for a few moments. He remembered mornings like this in his childhood, when Alfred would let him sleep-in while his parents were away for the morning. Breakfast-in-bed would inevitably follow, usually consisting of chocolate chip pancakes and hot chocolate with whipped cream.

The mere thought of putting food like that in his mouth now made his stomach turn. He was amazed he'd lived past age ten with all the deliciously poisonous foods he'd ingested. How many cans of condensed milk _had_ he and Rachel swiped?

He shuddered and mentally changed the subject. Yesterday had been his birthday. It had to have been both the weirdest and most depressing birthday he ever had – even surpassing that one he spent shivering in the Swiss Alps feasting on marmot and Alpine salamander. After all, waking up from a two day delirium brought about by weaponized hallucinogens, saving Rachel from the same fate times three, taking part in a high speed police chase, pretending to be drunk and insulting all his guests, watching his ancestral home burn down around him, and saving the city from the evil designs of a man he looked up to almost as a father didn't add up to the typical billionaire's thirtieth birthday party.

Bruce mentally cringed at the thought of Ducard. After the years he spent roaming without a clear purpose, the offer from the League had seemed worth some investigation, at least. What he found when he reached the temple had far surpassed his wildest conjectures on the journey up the mountain. At first he thought he had fallen in with a band of very violent thugs; but the following days had changed him. He began to feel at home among the men that lived there, and Ducard became so much more than simply an instructor.

His knowledge of himself had increased significantly, and his skills as a warrior had definitely improved. He learned to perform feats he believed could only spring from the imaginations of the world's finest novelists, and Ducard gave him a purpose and self-confidence that had been missing all his life. For the first time in two decades, Bruce had actually been living. He believed in his mentor, and looked up to him with a loyalty he thought could never be shaken.

When he passed his final test, the sense of pride and accomplishment that flooded his soul had been almost overwhelming. He at last knew what the phrase "on top of the world" truly meant. He had done well by his mentor in the eyes of their leader, and together they would be rewarded. At last he could do good for the world. At last he could live up to his parents' ideals.

All of it had been shattered when he found that he still needed to pass the real test. They ordered him to kill a man in cold blood, and immediately the image that had haunted his every step – that of his parents lying dead in an alley – had passed before him, their sightless eyes begging him to refuse. He had no choice. Despite the urgings of his mentor, he couldn't bring himself to betray his parents.

The events immediately following – his fight with Ra's al Ghul, the destruction of the temple, and his mad slide down the mountain to save Ducard – were all rather hazy in his memory; but he could remember feeling abandoned, even as he carried his mentor to safety. A trust had been betrayed, whether by Bruce or Ducard he wasn't sure, and once again he was plunged into the desolation of losing a father.

It was on the long journey back down the mountain that his plan for Gotham had taken a firm hold. What Ra's said was true enough, he knew. Gotham was steeped in corruption, poverty, and crime; perhaps it _was_ time someone did something about it. _"As Gotham's favored son, you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality."_ Surely with all the training and experience Bruce had gained through the years, he could follow in his parents' footsteps and ease the sufferings of those less fortunate than he. However, he knew that what his father had done for the city wasn't enough. One man alone could do very little, no matter how rich he was.

_"Theatricality and deception are powerful agents. You must become more than just a man in the mind of your opponent." _And so Batman had been born, and within only a few weeks he had Falcone off the streets, the city saved, and his home destroyed. While he could have lived quite happily without that last, the other two did grant him a certain measure of that same pride and accomplishment that had meant so much a few months earlier.

He paused, reflecting on all that had happened since he'd come home. The sound of rubble shifting far overhead made him groan and cover his eyes with his hand. _Why the house? Why did it have to be the house?_ He shook his head, _Oh, suck it up, Wayne. It could have been worse._

"Ah, Master Bruce; I see you are awake. Unfortunately, all I can offer for your breakfast is bottled water and a can of surplus Army rations. The Batman does not seem to have an overly abundant cupboard."

_It's worse._

"Good morning, Alfred," he mumbled, curling into a sitting position and running a hand through his hair.

Alfred was standing nearby, waiting patiently for instructions, a cheesecloth and a tub of Turtle Wax Rubbing Compound in his hand. "Shall I get you something, sir?"

"No thanks, Alfred; I need you to drive me into town, and we'll grab something on the way."

"Very good, sir," was all the old man said, but Bruce could sense the approval behind the statement. If there was anything Alfred loathed, it was prepackaged food. "I shall have your suit ready momentarily."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce replied, silently praising the butler's foresight that had resulted in several business suits being kept in the Cave for situations wherein Bruce Wayne was needed straight from the Bat's lair.

As he slid out from under the warm blanket and into his cold bathrobe, Bruce went over his plan for the day and came up short. "Alfred?" he called. "How are we going to explain my . . . uh . . . evening?"

"Do you mean the fact that you are checked into neither a hospital nor a hotel?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Oh, Master Bruce, a billionaire must have _some_ secrets," Alfred intoned with his usual passive expression, though his eyes twinkled merrily.

The absurd irony of the statement wasn't lost on Bruce, and he couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Although he was dying for a shower and a toothbrush, he figured the day could only get better. After all, wasn't today the official date of Earle's termination?

The smile turned feral and he nodded to himself. _Oh, yes; the day can only get better._


	4. Jim Gordon

_Disclaimer:_ All these guys – good and bad – belong to DC comics, and I'm pretty sure that's not me.

* * *

Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb glared down at the newspaper in his hand. _Someone_ had leaked to the press last night, and Loeb vowed he would find the punk and deal with him accordingly. "Damn rag," he muttered angrily under his breath. The cause for his ire could be found in the headline staring back at him; or, more specifically, the sergeant it praised: LONE COP HELPS BATMAN, SAVES THE DAY. The article went on to expound the merits of one Sgt. James Gordon, the only GCPD cop deployed to the Narrows who managed to remain lucid during the previous night's emergency. 

He was also the single cleanest cop in all of Gotham.

_And he's a royal pain in the precinct,_ the Commissioner groused silently.

Loeb had partnered Gordon with Flass in the dim hope that spending every on-duty hour with someone as low as that would break Gordon's resistance; and he'd felt that he was getting close.

But then _he'd_ come to town. Loeb bristled at the mere thought of _him_ – the Batman. With the arrest of Falcone and the emergence of the caped vigilante, Loeb had felt the foundations of his world tremble. He knew that if they didn't stop the costumed freak immediately, they wouldn't stand a chance against him later. It seemed they'd missed their opportunity.

He turned back the page of his newspaper. The demise of all he'd built was spelled out in bold black letters: GCPD KNOCKED OUT, BATMAN SAVES CITY. The bastard had made the front page. That was twice within ten days. Loeb sighed angrily; there was no hope for it now. The Batman was firmly entrenched in the minds of Gotham's citizens and media clowns, and the Commissioner knew that any move against the Guano King now would be heavily criticized.

_Doesn't mean he can't be taken out quietly,_ he mused darkly to himself. But he shook his head in disgust. No, someone like that would never go without a scene; and once the media started digging, the whole house of cards known as the Gotham City Police Department would tumble into the hole.

Still, they couldn't openly admit that he was an actual entity; to do so would be doubly disastrous. But if they managed to create enough doubt, maybe the average citizen would believe him to be a figment of the media's collective imagination.

But that would mean that Gordon _had_ saved the day, and single-handedly too. Loeb growled quietly to himself; nothing was simple anymore. What happened to the good old days when you could scam an entire city unmolested?

A knock at his door snapped him out of his brooding; but the silhouette in the translucent glass brought all his ill-will broiling back to the surface. "Come in," he barked.

Gordon stepped boldly through the door, but Loeb could see the apprehension mixed with contempt that flowed just beneath the surface. "You sent for me, Commish?"

"Sit down." Gordon obeyed silently, and Loeb couldn't help mentally cursing the man's honest and compliant nature – an argument could be blown up into something that might leave Gordon stripped of his badge; and the only thing Loeb wanted more than the Batman behind bars was Gordon off the force and quiet. "Would you care to explain, Sgt. Gordon?" he demanded more than asked.

"Sir?"

"You know what I mean, Sergeant," he snapped, holding up his newspaper in accusation. "I want to know why you were the _only_ law enforcement officer sent into the Narrows that didn't come out on a stretcher. I want to know when and how you _did_ come off the island. And I would _love_ to hear where you thought you got the authority to lower that bridge." He could feel his temper rising ever higher, but he no longer cared. Hang his doctor, and hang his blood pressure; all that mattered was the mouse – no, the _rat_ of a man sitting across his desk.

He noticed Gordon fidgeting in his seat – worry creasing his brow – and took distinct pleasure in knowing the man thought his job was about to be taken away. If there was one thing Loeb loved, it was having power over people he hated, even if it was only imagined. And imagined it was, for in this case his hands were tied.

He let out an angry sigh of defeat and dropped the paper to his desk. To be honest for once, Loeb didn't really want to know the answers to his questions – to know was to be officially responsible for dealing with the Batman, and for now, he'd rather be left in the dark. Leaning forward on his elbows, he rubbed his brow and spoke before Gordon could form a decent answer. "Gordon, as Commissioner of Police it is my duty," he paused, giving the man across from him a glance loaded with hatred and purpose, _"and pleasure,"_ he added forcefully, "to commend you for your competent actions during last night's crisis. Without you this city would not be here today."

Gordon seemed surprised, but Loeb knew after a single glance that the man wasn't naïve enough to miss the undercurrents of unstated meaning. He knew as well as anyone that the entire justice system of Gotham City was rotten and putrid down to the very core. He knew that the only thing keeping him employed was the media attention he'd gotten. If the hero cop was suddenly fired, _someone _would ask questions; and the transparent farce of a cover over the dirty secret everyone knew wouldn't stand up against a real assault from an idealist in the media or elsewhere – like that weasily dame in the D.A.'s office that was causing so many waves.

Gordon's quiet, "Thank you, sir," roused Loeb from his mental tangent.

"Not at all, Lieutenant," he answered smoothly.

"Lieutenant?" Gordon echoed.

"That's right. You are hereby promoted. The official paperwork will be put in your box; the pay raise is in effect immediately. Also, the mayor has asked me to grant you any single concession you request, within reason."

Again Gordon's eyes met Loeb's, and the dark, knowing look glinting in them let the Commissioner know that Gordon knew a bribe when he heard one. But he could also see that the idea had taken root in Gordon's head.

"Thank you, sir," he repeated finally, his gaze far away while he considered his options. At last he turned back to Loeb, a smile tugging at his lips. "I accept the promotion; and request that a spotlight, built to my specifications, be installed on the roof."

"A spotlight?" Loeb asked perplexed. "On the roof? You mean . . . that roof?" he added, his finger aimed at the ceiling.

"That's right," Gordon nodded, a grin now firmly in place under his mustache.

Loeb shrugged. "Hell, why not?" he questioned, summoning his secretary and leaning back in his chair. "A spotlight," he confirmed, still incredulous.

"A spotlight," Gordon agreed firmly.

* * *

Loeb sat fuming in his office, his back to the large window. He hated Gordon. The sneaking little sniveling rat had gone one step too far; but there was nothing the Commissioner could do about it, and they all knew it. 

He glanced over his shoulder at the overcast night sky and the powerful beam of light that cut through the darkness – the shape of a bat visible against the clouds – and cursed.


End file.
